Comfortably Numb
by cathartic
Summary: "Face it, darling. You're an addict. Death is your drug. And you're gonna spend the rest of your life chasing that dragon." (Begins at Season 10, Episode 1. Plot diverges from there. Demon!Dean. Dean/Castiel)
1. Chapter 1

**COMFORTABLY NUMB**

_"Face it, darling. You're an addict. Death is your drug. And you're gonna spend the rest of your life chasing that dragon."_

_"So?"_

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_It seems what's left of my human side,_  
_Is slowly changing in me._

* * *

Green eyes stared down into fizzing amber liquid, through the bottom of a shot glass.

_Apathy._

The word rang back and forth in the demon's head, rattling back and forth, knocking on the edges of his skull and leaving a burning ache in his temples. Hollowness, coldness, numbness, spread from his ribcage through the rest of his body.

It never felt normal, to press a hand to your chest and feel the stillness. The vision of a still, decaying heart flooded his mind's eye, and Dean curled his lip, picking up the shot glass and tossing the burning liquid to the back of his throat.

A low hum of music rang through the empty bar. The bartender's body lay on the ground behind the bar, the blood drying sticky on to the dark stone floor, the chandelier that flickered once every twenty minutes illuminating the crimson liquid.

A hint of a smile turned up the edge of the Winchester's lips as he pushed himself upright, arching an eyebrow at the body. He wished, even then, that he could feel pleasure at the man's demise; or guilt, or regret. He knew the man had a family, kids, and he thought maybe if the deed were more evil, it might spark some permanent feeling, more than it did when the person deserved to die. He idly searched inside himself, feeling for something. He'd killed an innocent man.

_Nothing._

The emotions faded now after twenty-four hours after a kill. Before, it had been fourty-eight.

Both eyebrows lifted in a sort of shrug, and he turned, walking around the bar and stepping carefully over the dead man and grabbing a bottle of whiskey, not bothering to read the label. He then turned and left the old, broken-down building, reaching a hand into his jacket pocket to run it over his blade.

A feeling of warmth blossomed in his chest at the touch. The blade, _killing_, those were the only things that illuminated some semblance of feeling inside. It was warmth, happiness, contentment, excitement, a high. Alcohol, too, a physical warmth. It was close, but not enough.

The emptiness was more consuming with every hit. Painful, decaying his insides. It was more than emptiness. It was poison, it'd incinerated everything inside him and it threatened to finish him off if he didn't sate it.

He pushed up his sleeve idly as he entered the dark parking lot, running a hand over the scar of a mark on his forearm.

Pulling open the door of the Impala, he turned off his human sense of smell to avoid the reek of old food. Arguably, he should have dumped the old piece of junk for something faster. It made more sense. He took it to mean that perhaps there was some part of himself left. He must care, if he held on to the relic. Then, he considered that maybe he just wasn't in a hurry to get anywhere, and stealing a car would be more effort without reward.

"Dean."

The sound of a voice ignited furious, pounding bloodlust. His eyes widened, pupils dilating, and he felt his blade singing to him from inside his jacket pocket. Turning slowly, his teeth gritted to form a teeth-bared smile, he tilted his head in greeting to Crowley. The King of Hell looked at him expectantly, fingers laced in his usual manner.

Dean watched the small man glare at him, and ignored the way the hairs rose on the back of his neck. It would be so easily to kill the little demon - like snapping a twig. So many ways. First, carving a locking sign into his skin, so he couldn't flee his meat suit; then he could cut through his throat, into the carotid arteries, or into his long-dead heart.

Demons were normally less satisfying to kill. It was permanent, empty, meaningless; killing a dead thing. It was nothing like the rush of ending a human life, and perhaps that's why Crowley was less tolerable than the rest. He held hints of humanity in his nature, probably from his partial-cure. It was like a siren, Dean could hardly find it in himself to resist the call, even if they did share some form of friendship.

Odd, that. A friendship with Crowley. It was certainly one of the things that Dean considered most unusual about the situation. "Crowley," he responded gruffly, swinging his gaze away as he felt the bloodlust crawl up his throat, suffocating. "Drink?" He offered the bottle toward the demon, lifting his eyes to meet the glare, watching the hints of fear and concern in the coward's eyes. The Winchester smiled wider.

"Of that garbage? No," Crowley replied, smoothly as ever, his face a mask.

Perhaps it wasn't his eyes, just the waves of _feeling_ that rang out from the King of Hell's mind. Telepathy was a funny thing, and it was not always blatantly obvious when it was happening.

Perhaps there was more to his drive to kill Crowley than his hints of humanity; Dean hated being lied to, and it was so infuriating to realize that the man he considered his only friend for the past several months was a rampant liar.

Obvious, really, if he had looked at the situation realistically. Of course Crowley was a selfish, lying coward, who only sought to use Dean as a means to an end. He was a demon after all, and Dean knew how that felt - and how the apathy grew stronger over time.

"I have something for you," the man said, holding out a cellphone to the Knight of Hell.

Dean pursed his lips, popping open the bottle of whiskey casually and taking a swig, letting the burning liquid quiet his desire to snap Crowley's arm. He took the phone, tilting his head slightly at the image on the screen of a man who looked to be in his mid to late thirties. He had brown hair, blue eyes, and bore an odd resemblance to Castiel.

Dean snorted, wondering if Crowley had picked him solely for the resemblance.

"And what do I get for helping you?" the Winchester asked, lifting his chin slightly.

"To kill," Crowley replied.

The word itself felt like a taunt, and Dean gritted his teeth as he felt the still blood in his veins almost stir in response. Dean laughed emptily, turning around to face his old car. "All right, text me the directions," he said over his shoulder, getting into the Impala and keeping the cellphone in his hand as he started the engine.

Crowley's eyes pinched in some emotion - Dean had given up on discerning which it was at this point - he could no longer read them. There were negative and positive ones, he knew that much, but the difference between things like anger or sadness were too subtle for someone who never felt them anymore.

He pulled out of the deserted parking lot after Crowley vanished.

* * *

The last three kills had all been in the same general area, which made the drives relatively easy. Eventually though, Dean would probably have to take off and start refusing cases and killing innocents again. He couldn't be bothered with being wanted by the government. He could kill every last one of them that stood in his way, but what was the point? Eventually, he would run out, and then the hollowness would kill him, somehow. It was all that could. He'd tried shoving the first blade through his own chest, and that did no good.

He knew the weapon well enough to know that if murder itself could not end him, nothing could. Nothing except the torture of the emptiness that would end any part of him that resembled who he was. He'd end up like Cain, a personification of murder. Nothing but it, nothing without it.

Dean parked his car on the road outside the quiet house, illuminated by the full moon. It was a brick house, pale red, with a black chimney blowing smoke up into the dark sky. A realtor sign was stuck into the grass in the front yard. A cobblestone path led up to the set of double front doors, and Dean kicked rocks out of his path lazily as he strolled up to the steps. He felt the blade humming eagerly in his jacket pocket, and pulled it out with his left hand, the action sending warmth and life up into his body.

_Feeling_, it jarred him into action as it always did as he pushed the door open with one hand, the metal locks ripping apart the wood on the door.

He stepped into the entryway, eyes glazing rapidly over his surroundings. A pale, floral rug was at his feet over hardwood floor, the brief hallway holding two flower vases leading into the foyer. His inhuman hearing alerted him to the soft beating of a heart in the other room.

Almost in response, he felt his own heart kick into life again in his chest, pushing blood through his veins in a way that was so addicting, so human. Feelings, emotions, raw excitement and joy pulsing through his body as he contained the laugh that was building in his chest.

He tightened his grip on his blade, his fingers feeling warm again. He didn't notice the way his fingertips chilled everything until his heart beat again.

He swallowed, the action so very human, and started walking carefully toward the bedroom down a long, dark hallway. A painting of an open field at dusk, the silhouette of a tree the centerpiece of the artwork, was hung to his right - obviously an attempt to brighten up the bland house for the showing.

His hand fell on the doorknob to the bedroom, and he closed his eyes for a moment, reveling in the humanity for an instant before the blade and mark hissed in impatience. He threw open the door carelessly, eyes flashing black as the door slammed against the wooden wall behind it, startling the sleeping man upright and awake.

The man's heart thudded sharply, rapidly, fearfully. His eyes were wide in terror and confusion. The smell of adrenaline pumped thick and heavy into the air. A crooked smile fell across the Winchester's lips as he stared into the man's blue eyes with his own, jet-black gaze.

"_No,_ please," the man begged. "You can take it back, I don't want it anymore," he pleaded. "It wasn't worth it, take it away, I don't want it."

Dean laughed, the words hitting him squarely in the chest in the way they mimicked his own feelings. "It isn't that easy, pal," he said, his eyes flicking back to green as he approached. He felt the bloodlust shaking inside his own ribcage, adrenaline pumping through him. The high dazed him, the surroundings blurring slightly as he got closer.

The man started to scream, the cry dying on his lips before Dean sunk the blade through his ribcage and into his heart, the bones snapping out of the way. The blade sunk through flesh and bone like butter, and as he stabbed into the man's heart, his blue eyes fell flat, the fear and regret in them dying as suddenly as they had appeared.

The scent of adrenaline began to stale almost instantly, even as it hit the air from the open wound.

Sharp pain and guilt stinging his insides, burning hatred for himself welling up inside as he felt his human emotions resurface very suddenly, Dean ripped into the man's heart again and again, taking out his anger violently and letting the blood paint his hands.

Finally he stopped, breathing hard, lungs stinging, and let the humming blade fall to the ground for a moment.

"Dean?"

Dean's eyes widened in disbelief, and reflexively he grabbed his blade and jumped to his feet, stance widening as he faced the voice, heart thudding painfully.

"Cas?"

* * *

_Leave a review if it's worth continuing._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_It seems you're having some trouble,_  
_In dealing with these changes._  
_Living with these changes,_  
_The world is a scary place._

* * *

Dean found himself locked into place, paralyzed. The blood on his hands dripped on to the hardwood floor.

"Well I'll be damned," he drawled after a moment, staring into the angel's blue eyes, which were eerily similar to the man's he'd just killed. "Who'd have thought we'd run into each other here?" he asked sarcastically, throwing his arms out around himself and gesturing to the silent bedroom.

"Dean." The single word held thick pity.

Pain stung deep in his chest, and he suddenly wondered why he had missed the human emotions so badly. It was then that Dean realized how quiet the room really was. No hum of a mind - Castiel's mind was blocked - just blissful silence.

No desire to kill.

"What happened?" the angel asked, gaze falling on to the First Blade held loosely in Dean's hand - his eyes widened minutely. They reeked of innocence - from their expression, to the way their color glowed in the faint moonlight.

"What do you think happened, Cas?" Dean snapped, his own voice startling him with the raw emotion he heard in it. He shifted his weight on to his heels.

Castiel took several quick steps forward - the only person who didn't hesitate when approaching Dean in the past half year, especially with his weapon drawn - and grabbed his arm that held the blade. Dean tensed, pausing as he found Castiel simply observing the mark, his eyebrows furrowed slightly.

"Why?" The question held weight, and Dean felt something inside himself stir with discomfort at the proximity of the angel. Fear, primal fear - it wasn't something Dean had ever been familiar with.

"I did what I had to do."

The words hung tense in the air between them for a movement, before Dean jerked his arm away from the angel, pinning him with a sharp look and taking in his appearance for the first time since he'd appeared. He was wearing the same blue tie, white button-down shirt, and tan trench coat that he had since the day Dean had met him. He hadn't aged a day. He even had the same five o'clock shadow.

"It wasn't worth this, Dean," Castiel responded very seriously, after seemingly copying the act of glancing the other up and down.

"It was to me," he said, laughing and twirling his bloody blade between his fingers, the action sending humming warmth up his limbs. He'd never felt so alive. Not that he could recall, anyway.

"You don't mean that," Castiel stated, tone indisputable as he watched the weapon swing.

Dean's eyes flashed with anger, and he tightened his grip on his blade and stopped the twirling, gritting his teeth. "The hell I don't?"

"You are upset - you think there's no way to fix what's happened," the angel continued, brows pushed together as he thought aloud.

"No, I _know_ there's no way to 'fix' me. Because I don't want to be fixed. Don't you get it? I feel great. Can't fix what ain't broke." He felt his heart pound angrily, a sudden catastrophic fear at the thought of losing the blade suddenly consuming him. He felt it hiss angrily in his hand.

He couldn't lose the blade. He needed it.

"And this man?" Castiel gestured quietly to the body that was still pooling blood on to the mattress around it. "Is he, as you say, 'feeling great'? You see the damage you're doing to innocent-"

Dean cut the angel short with laughter, head tilted back slightly as he tucked his blade away safely in his jacket. "Oh Cas, I forgot how you made me laugh," he said, crow's feet forming around his eyes as he smiled. His expression abruptly fell flat, and he walked into the dead man's master bathroom to rinse the blood off his hands down the sink.

"He's dead, Cas. And he had it coming. He sold his soul, and I'm a hell of a lot kinder than a pack of hellhounds would be. If you want to talk innocent, I should make you up a list of all the good, decent men I've killed," the demon said, turning the water on, hands trembling as he gripped the faucet, scarlet blood sticking to the stainless steel knobs. "The ones with families, the ones who, went to church every Sunday and had a good steady job. Those ones, they're the ones you get a real _rush_ from killing," he finished, laughing humorlessly, red tinting his vision.

"This isn't you talking, Dean, it's the mark." Cas's voice was suddenly very close, and Dean spun around, eyes wide, finding himself practically nose-to-nose with the angel who still had no sense of personal space.

The demon looked into extremely blue orbs. He could feel the power radiating off of the other man in waves - leaking out what couldn't be contained by the vessel. He tilted his head forward slightly, blinking once. He found his mind flying back as Cas's eyes narrowed, staring intently up into the other's gaze.

Memories hit him through flashes of a camera lens.

He saw his first kill, he saw himself talking to Crowley, he saw his first mission, he felt the waves of chilling emptiness as he tried to refuse the mark, he watched himself puke his guts out into a bar bathroom, he saw himself with some blonde girl, walking back into a motel room-

The spell broke, Castiel's eyes wide with something not unlike anger and Dean shook himself, the memories that had resurfaced fading as rapidly as a dream. He paused for a moment, his mind blotting out the moment prior.

"Listen, Cas," Dean said, taking a small step back. He placed a hand on the angel's shoulder, wincing. "I asked Sam to let me go and now I'm asking you."

Cas's blue eyes pinched, expression morphing with confusion. "You mean, metaphorically?"

Dean sighed, hand falling off of the angel's shoulder. He turned to step around Castiel, head inclined forward slightly as he squared his shoulders, facing the door.

"If I ever see you again, Cas, it'll be the last time," he said, the words falling out of numb lips. It was tempting to ask the angel to come with him, but he knew when he was asking too much. Cas was a good friend, and he couldn't abuse that by asking him to go dark side for him. He was the monster now, and holding on to Cas just because he was the only person Dean didn't want to kill - _yet _\- would only destroy the semblance of humanity that he held on to. His memories of Cas and Sam, he needed those untarnished by what he was now.

"Dean, wait-"

"-I'm a demon, you're an angel. Do the math."

Very suddenly it was Castiel alone in the bloody bathroom, and the sound of the water pouring from the sink filled the silence.

* * *

Dean laid on his back in an abandoned motel bathroom, having beaten the shit out of the previous occupant - some burly drug addict with a beard.

It stunk like piss, smoke, and beer. He sucked in a deep breath.

_Crowley._

How Dean had missed what the demon had been doing - planting his cases all in the same area, to draw out his brother or Cas - he wasn't quite sure. Maybe the killing and drinking made him less aware than he realized. Or maybe he had just trusted the bastard more than he wanted to admit to himself. Either way, he was out of the state by now, having pulled over when he got tired.

Tired was a very foreign and rare occurrence at this point, but not an unwelcome one, he mused as he licked the remnants of cheap barbeque wings off his lips.

He felt around for his old phone, which he'd thrown down on the bed next to himself after staring at Sam's contact for a while, sipping a beer, and considering drunk-dialing him. He had almost forgotten how much easier it was to get shit-faced as a human.

The phone rang.

_Sam._

Dean jumped, eyes widening slightly. He fought back a yawn, pushed himself upright, accepted the call from his brother, and lifted the phone to his ear with a grin. "I left you an open tab at the bar," he drawled.

An unfamiliar, taunting voice answered on the phone, and Dean felt his blood run cold, white-hot rage pounding through his temples.

He felt his heartbeat stop again, freezing still and dead in his chest, and stopping the painful pumping of emotions through his veins. The first feelings of numbness seeped into his core, burning like frostbite.

He told the voice on the phone that Sam could tough it out, and wished him luck on putting a bullet between his brother's eyes.

He laid down, and closed his eyes.

He wasn't tired anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_I can see inside you, the sickness is rising._  
_Don't try to deny what you feel,_  
_(Will you give in to me?)_  
_It seems that all that was good has died,_  
_And is decaying, in me._

* * *

**Author's Note:** _Arghhh I dunno what happened this chapter. I'm not entirely happy with it but I don't want to change it. If you're reading, enjoy!_

* * *

Dean whooped, throwing both arms into the air with a grin. "Beer's on you," he said to the pissed off guy across the pool table, who had just lost his third game in a row. Having telekinetic powers sure didn't hurt in the realm of cheating.

It'd been forty-eight hours since he had killed, and he could feel his blade calling to him from his jacket pocket. He grinned widely. _Not today._

He was Dean Winchester. He could control his damn self, and no hyped-up super-weapon could change that.

He'd refused arch angels. He'd defied God's plans for the world. He _would_ control his own cravings.

"_Face it, darling. You're an addict. Death is your drug. And you're gonna spend the rest of your life chasing that dragon,_" Crowley's taunting words rang in his ears.

He let out a disjointed laugh, drawing some odd looks from around the room.

He wandered over to the bar, picking up his abandoned beer, took a final swig and walked toward the door. He smashed the glass bottle against the frame and let it sprinkle on to the floor as he headed out, ignoring one bartender's indignant shout after him.

Idly, he flicked his new sunglasses over his eyes, letting them flash black for a moment underneath the shades. It gave him a quick, _crisp_ glance at his surroundings. Human eyes saw only what was on the surface; it was incredibly limiting.

He felt momentarily blinded by someone approaching, and hissing in pain he pushed his sunglasses into his hair to scrub at his burning, watering eyes. "The hell-?" he muttered, squinting as he looked up with a human gaze.

_Gadreel_.

The familiar face of the angel's vessel approached, walking past him without even seeming to recognize him. The normally arrogant, proud angel seemed to be lost, shoulders caved inward as he wandered down the street.

Dean narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth to yell after him before pausing, and snapping his jaw shut again. He casually took after him following a moment's pause, feeling undue excitement and hope rushing off the weapon stowed in his jacket. He wasn't going to kill Gadreel. He was just... stalking him. Whatever the angel was up to, it was probably interesting, and if it did come to a fight - well, angels certainly provided a good challenge.

A niggling thought prodded at the back of his mind, acknowledging and simultaneously dismissing the fact that the idea of killing Castiel had never even crossed his mind - the very notion seeming repulsing. He had put that down to Castiel being an angel, and would continue to happily cherry-pick his proof as he shadowed Gadreel toward a different bar down the street in the beat-up part of downtown.

Gadreel stopped in his tracks just outside of the bar as Dean meandered by the corner of a nearby store, faux-looking in the window and glancing up at the glowing neon 'Closed' sign.

"Is there something you want from me, Demon?"

Dean felt his black eyes unwillingly surface for a moment at the name from the angel, and felt rage surge inside of him as he stepped forward. His eyes flicked back to green. "Don't play dumb, Gadreel," he snarled.

The angel turned slightly, a frown spread across his features. "How is it that you've not only acquired Dean Winchester's body as a vessel, but know my name?"

"How is that you aren't dead?" Dean spat, ignoring the other's questions blatantly as he reached into his jacket for his blade.

Gadreel paused, eyes widening slightly. "No, it can't be," he said, seemingly to himself. "It was just a story."

"I hate when you damn angels do that. You realize when you're speaking out loud, everyone can hear you? So at least make an effort to kick the whole vague, mysterious, all-knowing warrior of God crap."

"You are Dean Winchester?" Gadreel said slowly, beginning to back up away from the door, discreetly drawing his angel blade.

Dean laughed, the sound quiet and unnatural. "Ding-ding-ding, we have a winner," he taunted in reply, drawing his own weapon as an uncomfortably carnal smile contorted his features.

There was a long pause as Dean waited to see what the angel's first move would be, when Gadreel suddenly dropped his own blade, letting it clatter unceremoniously to the ground, and kicked it away, raising his hands. "You may kill me, and it will hopefully sate your bloodlust enough to protect an innocent life. At least then I will know my death helped someone, as I failed to help so many in life. It is a fitting death for a fallen," the angel droned monotonously, slowly getting to his knees.

Dean stared down at the submitting angel, a feeling of disgusting pity welling up inside him. He tucked the First Blade back into his jacket, and reached down a hand, pulling the angel back to his feet.

"Come on, let's get a drink," the demon said after an irritating pause, taking a couple strides to the nearby door and shoving it open.

He could control himself. He wouldn't give the Mark what it wanted.

* * *

Sam worked the knife back and forth against the rope that bound his hands, sweat clinging to his brow as he breathed heavily.

Dean wasn't coming for him, and briefly he'd considered letting himself die there for whatever it was his brother had done to the man who had abducted him. What did he have left, anyway?

He'd thrown away his normal life countless times, his parents were dead, his only sibling was dead. No - really - he was stuck in some tormented afterlife. And Sam was left to watch him destroy innocent lives.

If there was any point in living, he couldn't really see it anymore in his conscious mind, but maybe it was too driven in to him to survive at all costs, or maybe he'd rather die knowing he'd tried harder to save Dean. Besides, there was no need to make this man live with the guilt of having murdered him and regretting it. Soldier or not, Sam could see how shaken he was mentally.

Finally the ropes fell loose. In a final motion, the hunter threw his body into the ground, smashing apart the wooden chair that he was tied to. He grunted as a piece dug into his ribs, and staggered to his feet, pulling the rope off his midriff and over his head. He rubbed his rope-burned wrists as he started out of the dark, dilapidated room.

* * *

"I don't drink."

Dean snorted into his shot glass, choking on it and then beginning to laugh in a frenzied, manic way. He drew an uncomfortable look from a woman sitting at a nearby table - who had been relentlessly flirting with him earlier into the night - and a blank look from Gadreel.

"Why? Because it's a _sin_?" Dean asked mockingly.

"Yes."

Dean tremored, his body reacting oddly the longer he went without killing anyone. Part of him wondered how much of this was the blade. _Was_ it the blade, or was something wrong with _him_?

He scratched angrily at the burning mark beneath his sleeve, his arm twitching in response. He watched the blue veins on his wrist darken to black.

"You are hurting," Gadreel's voice cut into the Winchester's brooding train of thought. "That's-"

"Let's not talk about our feelings," Dean said shortly as he looked up, reaching for a new shot glass. "I know you're an angel and all, but I will still take you up on that execution offer."

Gadreel frowned, nodding as he looked down at the scratched wooden bartop, lost in thought.

There was a pause, and then the angel reached for the small glass of alcohol in front of him, tossing it to the back of his throat as he had observed the demon doing.

Dean let out a barking laugh, a grin transforming his features as he patted the grimacing man on the back. "So, what's it like to fly anyway?" Dean asked as the first hints of drunkenness touched his voice.

* * *

Hours later, a ringing phone was tossed aside on to the burgundy bedspread in an unlit hotel room, teeth and tongue meeting messily as Dean shoved Gadreel against the wall, alcohol buzzing pleasantly through his veins. He leaned forward, tired eyes drifting closed as he paused just before the angel's lips.

He could feel warm puffs of rum-scented breath, and a feeling of mingled rage and disgust suddenly gripped his stomach. His eyes shot back open.

_Bzzzt, bzzzt, bzzzt._

"You have a call," Gadreel slurred, his eyes half-lidded and slightly bloodshot.

There was a pause, as the angel seemed to become aware of the situation simultaneously, his eyes widening. Dean stiffened, leaning back from the intimate position, exhaling sharply as the mark seared in pain.

_What was he doing?_

"Yeah, I do," Dean bit out after a heavy pause, suddenly stepping back and flexing his jaw, gritting his teeth. "Thanks," he said dryly. He grabbed his phone off the bed and started out the door, slamming it behind him before Gadreel could answer, and jogged down the nearby set of stairs and out the exit.

He could still feel confused, alcohol-muddled emotion clouding his thoughts as he stepped out into the cold night air, gaze lingering on the cement ground. An idle breeze blew, ruffling the top of his short, dirty-blonde hair. Rather uncomfortably, he noted that even though he could tell the physical temperature, it didn't affect him.

He looked at his phone, noted the missed call from Crowley, and shoved it back into his pocket after a moment of deliberation. He leaned against the railing, observing the dewy grass on the other side.

"Well, Squirrel, it sure is a good thing I call before teleporting," Crowley drawled from nearby, leaning back in his suit against the metal railing that ran along the cement sidewalk. He stared up at the polution-obscured stars, head tilted to one side. "Sorry that I had to interrupt-"

"Shut up, give me a job," Dean cut him off, voice turning hoarse as he watched the black liquid in his veins crawl up his arm, burning like a thick vaccine.

* * *

_Please review! :)_


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